


don't you know (he loves you so)

by ToAStranger



Series: December FF Challenge 2k14 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, DECFANFIC, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After setting a peace treaty with the Alpha Pack, Stiles finds himself on the receiving end of Deucalion's attentions and affections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice Skating

**Author's Note:**

> For the December Fan Fic Challenge, as well as Stalion Week 2014. 
> 
> Tags will be added as I write more stories. 
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> December Fic Challenge Day One
> 
> Theme: Ice Skating
> 
> Part: 1/7
> 
> Prompt: Don't know if you're taking prompts/requests, but can you write a short ficlet of Deucalion/Stiles where Deucalion kisses Stiles' hand on several occasions in private and public? (by ellengrieves)

Stiles blinks at him, lips parted.  The rest of the Pack—excluding Scott because he’s frowning, Lydia because she just looks bored, and Peter because he’s grinning—all look just about as shocked as Stiles feels.  Even Deucalion’s posse looks surprised when, at the end of a very arduous meeting where they came to terms about territory and who belonged where, Deucalion narrows in on Stiles and pads over as casual as can be to take his hand and press a slow kiss to his knuckles. 

“Uh,” Stiles’ brows pinch together. 

“It was a pleasure working with you, Alpha Hale.”  Deucalion says to Derek, but there are blind eyes on Stiles’ face.  “And lovely meeting you, Stiles.”

Stiles opens his mouth, but there aren’t words. 

The Alpha Pack walks out of the loft, trailing after their leader.  Stiles swallows thickly, staring after them, and when he finally turns to ask Derek what just happened the older man is busy checking over Erica and Boyd.  Freshly returned to them and completely unharmed from what Stiles can see.  There is a relief in Derek’s features, and Stiles bites back the urge to trouble it again with his question.

Scott crowds over to him though, jaw set.  “What was that?”

“How the hell should I know?” Stiles asks.

“Because you know things.  And—And stuff.”  Scott insists.

Stiles gives him a dry look, eyes narrowing, but before he can snap Peter cuts in.

“Seems you have an admirer, Stiles.”  Peter hums. 

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “That’s not even funny, dude.”

“Good thing it wasn’t a joke.”  Peter smiles, sharp and just shy of unkind. 

Stiles and Scott share a look, but their concerns are swallowed up by the relief of having their Packmates back and the dispersion of the fear they’d been holding for the Alpha Pack.

* * *

Stiles runs into Deucalion outside of the local book store.  He stalls in front of the door, debating with himself, but he knows that the other man has probably already sniffed him out.  Fingers drumming at his thighs, he sighs, and opens the door.  The jingle overhead has Deucalion’s head tilting, and he comes to a slow stop in front of the doorway, smile broad.

“Stiles,” he says with a cant of his head.  “What a pleasure.”

Stiles purses his lips, though he knows the other man can’t see his irritation.  “Are you following me?”

Deucalion laughs.  “Why would you think that?”

“Because I have it on good authority that you’re more than casually interested in me.”  Stiles replies and pauses when Deucalion’s brow goes up.  “Okay, so it’s more like really shady authority, but the matter still holds.”

“Does it?”

Stiles huffs and can see his breath in front of his own face.  “Yes.”

Humming, Deucalion gestures with his head towards the open door.  “I believe you’re letting all the heat out,” he says and turns to walk inside.

Stiles balks slightly, following after him.  “Hey, we were—“ he cuts short at the stern looks he gets from old woman Jensen where she’s perched behind the counter. 

Deucalion has already turned down an aisle, tapping his white cane along the way, and Stiles makes chase.  At the back of the shop, where the used books are lined from wall to wall, Stiles comes to a stumbling halt and nearly collides with Deucalion’s broad back. 

“Stiles, be a love and tell me if you see anything by E.A. James.”  He says over his shoulder, as if they had done this before. 

Flush high on his cheeks, Stiles frowns, but his eyes are already skimming cracked leather spines with a keen avidness; his voice is hushed when they speak.  “We were having a conversation.”

“About me liking you.”  Deucalion nods.  “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Stiles huffs.  “Yes, we were having the conversation?  Or yes, you like me?”

Deucalion is grinning when Stiles looks his way.  “Both.”

Blinking at him, Stiles frowns.  “Why?”

“Because you’re interesting.”

“You’re in an Alpha Pack.  You’re the Alpha of a—“ Stiles pauses as someone brushes by, sighing and pressing closer, voice soft.  “You’re the Alpha of a  _Pack_  of  _Alphas_.  And I’m interesting?”

Deucalion is still smiling.  “Yes.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles glances away, eyes back on the lines of books.  He skims, letting out a soft sound when he finally finds what he’s looking for.  Plucking the thick tome off the shelf, he holds it out for Deucalion and falters.  He clears his throat quietly, shifting from foot to foot.

“The um, I have the—“ Stiles huffs again, reaching out and taking Deucalion’s hand in his, guiding it to the book.  “Here.”

Deucalion nods, fingers brushing along Stiles’ as he grips it.  “Thank you.”

“You’re—You’re welcome.”

Stiles isn’t sure why he trails along with Deucalion the whole way through the store, but he does.  They don’t talk about werewolves or banshees or why Deucalion is so interested in Stiles.  They don’t need to. 

At the checkout counter, Deucalion buys the book that Stiles had picked up along the way.  Stiles tries to protest, but he’s hushed by Deucalion and Mrs. Jensen.  He’s positive that it’s all some kind of conspiracy.  Outside, Deucalion presses his own book into Stiles’ hands.

“Read it,” he says.

“What?  Why?”

Deucalion just smiles, and Stiles feels like maybe he knows all the secrets of the world.  “You’ll find what you need to know in it.”

Without another word, he takes Stiles’ hand in his and brings it up, lips brushing over his knuckles.  Stiles watches him go until he’s gone, books heavy in his hands.

* * *

He has never been fond of the cold.  Ice, as a general rule, is bad in Stiles’ opinion.  Black ice, for instance, has skidded him off the road more than just once.  When he was a child, his mother took him skating in a large frozen pond in the Preserve where he fell and fractured his tailbone.  Stiles doesn’t like ice.

So when he ends up scuttling across a vast expanse of it, running breathless from a horse that is white as snow, he feels nothing but contempt for the winter weather and holiday season.  There is a whinny that is too close, and Stiles tries to pick up his pace, sneaker slipping over the frozen lake and sending him ass over to the ice.  His head spins and he hears howls too far off threaded through the sound of hooves and then cracking.  The ice shifts, and Stiles pushes to his feet, launching himself forward to try and get away. 

The surface collapses under him, and he claws at the ice for purchase.  There is fear in his gut, a sour taste in his mouth, and he feels the Nökken wrap a long hand around his ankle.  He doesn’t have to look to know that the horse is gone, that there is a man behind him now, pulling him into the water.  Stiles screams before he’s dragged under the surface.

The cold shocks the air out of his lungs.  He sinks, almost peacefully, until clawed hands catch him around the biceps and yank.  When he breaks through the water, he gasps and hears more than one snarl.  Shivering, he watches through bleary eyes as the Nökken seizes up out of the water where the ice has broken in, only to be caught by the throat.  There is a wolf, eyes glowing red, across the hole from Stiles and it rips the creature’s throat out—painting the ice as red as its gaze.

“Stiles?”

He blinks.  Looking up, he sees Scott’s pinched expression, and someone puts a coat around his shoulders.  When he glances over, he sees Peter; he doesn’t say thank you, but Peter nods anyways.  His focus falls back to the Nökken, and he doesn’t find himself surprised to see Deucalion standing there, completely nude, with blood dripping down his chin, his neck, his chest.  He  _is_  surprised that there is enough heat in his body to rush south.

Scott places a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder.  “Come on, man.  Let’s get you home.”

“Right,” Stiles mumbles, and realizes absently that his teeth are chattering. 

Peter and Scott help Stiles to his feet as the others finally appear in the clearing of the lake.  Leaning heavily against Scott’s side, Stiles watches as Kali holds out clothes for Deucalion to take.  Red eyes track him, more than one pair, and when they finally make it to land—snowy land, but land nonetheless—Deucalion calls for them to wait.

He walks over slow, pulling a shirt over his head, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.  Scott growls at his side, but when Stiles elbows him, goes quiet.

Deucalion reaches out, curves a hand over Stiles’ jaw and takes one of Stiles’ hands in his other one.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m breathing,” Stiles says and shivers heavily.

“We have to get him dry and warm,” Scott insists.

“Alright,” Deucalion says, lifting Stiles’ hand up, lips brushing the tips of his fingers carefully.  “Soon.”

The tips of Stiles’ ears go red. 

Deucalion moves away and Scott puffs out his cheeks as he ushers Stiles along.  Stiles’ heart is pattering over in his chest, and he’s grateful Scott doesn’t say anything.  He remembers the book Deucalion bought and gave to him, remembers what he read in it, and knows that soon means more than just when they’ll see each other again. 

If he wasn’t shaking so bad, Stiles knows that he’d be smiling. 


	2. Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Challenge Day Two
> 
> Theme: Mistletoe
> 
> Part 2/7
> 
> No Prompt

“That is a  _terrible_ idea,” Stiles says, looking up at the buddled sprig with a dry expression. 

Lydia frowns up at him from where they’re standing in Derek’s doorway; there is a bustle of sound coming from within, conversation casual despite the formal meeting their expecting to occur in less than fifteen minutes.  Lydia enlisted Stiles’ aide for shining up the place a bit in light of the holidays, and the pièce de résistance is the mistletoe that Lydia pinned to the doorway. 

“It’s festive,” Lydia insists.

“It’s poisonous.”  Stiles replies.  “Specifically, to our more furry friends.”

Lydia crosses her arms, canting her head back to look at it.  “If they ingest it, sure.”

Stiles sighs.  “So it stays?”

“It stays.”

“Alright,” he holds up a hand, stepping through the threshold.  “Fine by me.  But when someone starts dying, don’t—”

Lydia cuts him off, lips pressing firmly to his, smearing lipstick against the corner of his mouth.  Her hand is curled into the front of his shirt, and Stiles’ mouth gets in gear while the rest of him flails.  There is a loud whistle, and Lydia pulls back with a saccharine sweet smile as he blinks down at her.   

“If I’d known there was going to be a show, I would have brought popcorn.”  Erica calls from where she’s draped over the couch. 

Lydia lifts a brow as she peers around Stiles.  “There’s some in the kitchen.  Maybe while you’re in there, you learn how to mind your own business.”

Erica flips her off with a crooked smile, pushing herself off of the couch and sauntering out of the living room.  When Lydia’s focus is back on him, Stiles’ brows go up expectantly.  She smiles and shrugs a shoulder.

“You were under the mistletoe.”

* * *

The meeting with the Alpha Pack goes off without a hitch right up until the very end.  Even that is less of a hitch and more of a hiccup, and it has nothing to do with their treaty or their bimonthly discussions. 

It happens as everyone is leaving, heading out the door and into the cold winter night.  Stiles is lagging, helping pick up a few things, and Derek is trying his best to politely coax Stiles out of his loft.  Peter is watching, biting back his amusement, but not very well; a few of their Packmates and both Kali and Deucalion are hovering outside the door making small talk.  Hand at Stiles’ lower back, Derek guides him towards the door, stopping with him beneath the threshold as he nods and gives terse smiles to all around. 

At Boyd’s side, Erica cackles.  “Uh-oh, Stiles.  Looks like you’re under the mistletoe again.”

Both he and Derek look up; she’s right, of course.

Stiles’ jaw flexes.  “Nobody else has had to do it—”

“Nobody else walked out next to anyone,” Erica argues with a wink. 

Derek scowls at her.  “We don’t—”

“It’s tradition,” Erica insists.  “Kiss or your Christmas is nothing but bad luck.”

Boyd snorts.  “With our luck, I wouldn’t risk that.”

Stiles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose even as he turns to face Derek.  “We might as well get it over with, dude—”

Derek kisses him.  It’s chaste and not sweet in the least, but it’s a kiss.  Erica lets out a sound of protest, but they’re both stepping out from under the threshold in very opposite directions. 

Flush, Stiles ducks his head and brushes by.  He mumbles a soft valediction and jogs down the stairs rather than waiting for the lift.  Outside, he regrets wearing so few layers and tucks his hands into his pockets with a heavy shiver. 

He starts heading towards where he parked his Jeep, stopping when he hears someone call his name.  His stomach knots and he twists around, biting the inside of his cheek when he sees Deucalion dismissing Kali from his side.  Stiles sees the way she narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t comment, waiting until she is out of sight before moving back close to where Deucalion is standing with his hands folded calmly over the head of his white cane.

Licking his lips, Stiles shuffles a bit, bouncing on his toes as the cold sets in.  “Hello.”

“Hello,” Deucalion dips his head, smile small and a bit tight over his lips.  “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you during the meeting.”

“Well, it was all shoptalk so—”

“How are you?”

Stiles pauses.  “Um.  You know, average.  Winter break is coming up, so that’s nice.”

“And you aren’t suffering any ill effects from last weekend and your run-in with the Nökken?”  Deucalion asks.

“No.  Not—I mean, not really.  Not gonna want to go swimming for a while, but no.”  Stiles says, shuddering; though, he’s not sure if it’s from the memory or from the cold.

Deucalion makes a soft sound, and then he’s shrugging out of his coat.  “Please, put this on.”

Blinking, Stiles reaches out, fingers hovering over the expensive looking material before gripping it.  Stiles wraps it around himself carefully, grateful for the heat. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”  Deucalion smiles again, and the tension in Stiles’ shoulders eases slightly at the warmth he finds there.  “Might I walk you to your car?”

Licking his lips, Stiles shifts from foot to foot and then nods.  “Yeah.  Sure.”

They walk quietly, Deucalion tap-tapping at his side.  Stiles swallows down the urge to take him by the arm and lead him. 

At his Jeep, they stop, and Stiles moves to shrug out of Deucalion coat. 

“No,” he says, holding up a hand.  “Keep it.  From what I understand, your wardrobe could use it.”

Stiles’ expression pinches.  “Who said that?”

“Ethan.”

“Oh.” Stiles fidgets with the long sleeves.  “Won’t you be cold?”

“No, I’m not often cold.  Werewolf blood runs hot.”  Deucalion says.  “Besides, I’d much rather you keep the smell of me on you for a bit longer.”

The tips of Stiles’ ears go pink.

“Have you read the book I gave you?” he asks.

Stiles feels like he has to swallow down his own heart with the way it’s rabbiting away in his chest.  “Yes.”

“And?”

“And I’m both flattered and confused.”  Stiles says. 

Deucalion hums.  “Confused?” he prompts.

“About why, out of my entire Pack—or any Pack, really—you’d pick me to, um… to court.”  Stiles says, and his voice is quiet, like if he says it too loud it won’t be true anymore.

“I told you, Stiles.”  Deucalion smiles again.  “You’re interesting.”

Stiles inhales sharply when the older man takes a step into his space.  He shivers, wary, as Deucalion runs a slow hand down his arm.  Taking hold of Stiles’ wrist, he guides it up to his mouth, and kisses the inside of Stiles’ palm.  Heart stalling, Stiles’ mouth goes dry.

“How many times were you caught under the mistletoe tonight, Stiles?”  Deucalion asks in a whisper.

Stiles sways slightly.  A hand lands at his hip, pivoting them, and Stiles gasps when his back meets the metal of his Jeep—the heat of Deucalion’s body flush with his front.  Deucalion’s cane clatters against the asphalt.

“How many kisses do I need to make up for?” he asks, voice going rough, and Stiles trembles. 

“Twice,” Stiles says. 

Deucalion’s lips slant over his, slow but firm.  It lasts, their mouths pressing together, and the tips of Stiles’ fingers tingle. 

Arms draping lazily around Deucalion’s shoulders, Stiles cants his head and lets his lips part under Deucalion’s coaxing.  Their tongues meet and tangle, twining in a way that is somehow sweet and yet erotic.  Stiles moans softly, fingers curling into the material of Deucalion’s sweater, and the hum of Deucalion’s own pleased sound shakes Stiles to the core.  A hand cradles the back of Stiles’ head, keeping him close for as long as he can, the other arm tightening at Stiles’ waist.

When they pull back, Stiles is breathless.  His face is pinkened and not from the bite of cold.  Deucalion pets through his hair, eyes a burning red, and Stiles wonders if Deucalion can see what he’s doing to Stiles.  How he’s turning his world on its head.

“That’s one,” Deucalion mutters, pulling away slowly, and Stiles instantly misses the weight of him.  “I think I might save the second one for another time.”

Quieted, Stiles watches as he plucks up his cane with ease.  Deucalion brings Stiles’ hand up once more, kissing his knuckles before stepping back and turning. 

“I’ll see you soon, Stiles.”  Deucalion says over his shoulder. 

Later, sitting in his car outside of his home, Stiles finds the tiniest spring of mistletoe in the jacket pocket of Deucalion’s coat.  He smiles to himself, twirling it between his fingers. 


	3. Holiday Specials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Day Three
> 
> Theme: Watching Holiday Specials
> 
> No prompt

Stiles is home by himself when someone comes knocking.  He frowns, setting the bowl of popcorn aside, and pushes to his feet.  The pounding at the door nearly has him toppling over, and he scrambles faintly, not getting a chance to pause the film as he shuffles backwards out of the living room and towards the foyer.  The wind rattles outside, and Stiles doesn’t turn until his back hits the door.

Even then, he is looking over his shoulder, on his toes to try and keep his eyes on the screen as he fumbles with the lock.  He turns the knob and the harsh weather outside pushes the door open.  Startled, Stiles blinks as flurries come swirling through the threshold and two broad bodies come shoving through.

Pressing his full weight to the wood, Stiles slams the door shut again, bolting it against the howl of the storm.  He turns, scowling with brows pinched in confusion, shivering just from the momentary bite of winter.  As Deucalion and Peter collapse somewhere between the front door and his kitchen, Stiles feels his heart jump.

“What happened?” he asks in a breath, rushing to them and slipping over hardwood in his socks before landing harshly on his knees. 

Deucalion grunts, tugging Peter up from where he’s slumped over and cradling his own stomach.  “A rogue Alpha, if you can believe it.”

Stiles dips down, looping one of Peter’s arms over his shoulders and helping Deucalion bring Peter to his feet.  “One of yours?”

Deucalion scoffs.  “Absolutely not.”

“An _omega_ Alpha,” Peter mumbles, shaking his head. 

“We need to lay him down and make sure everything is healing properly, Stiles.”  Deucalion says. 

“Living room,” Stiles says, already moving that direction. 

They practically drag Peter there.  In his pride, Peter tries to push away from the both of them and walk on his own at one point and nearly topples over again.  Stiles just renews his grip and yanks him towards the couch.  When they get there, he clears the space for him, and he and Deucalion lay Peter out nontoogently. 

Peter grunts, fangs bared, but he blinks at the TV screen.  “Are you watching _Home Alone_?”

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbles, crouching down next to him and shoving his sweater up to peer at the gash beneath—nearly gagging at the depth of the wounds.  “An Alpha did this?”

Peter huffs tightly.  “ _Yes_.”

“So you’ll be bleeding for a while,” Stiles glances up at Deucalion whose eyes are still a vivid red.  “Can you—There’s a medical kit in the downstairs bathroom, can you--?”

“I can navigate your home, Stiles.” Deucalion assures before stepping away.

When he’s gone, Stiles’ focus falls back to Peter.  He digs his fingers into the sticky-wet material of Peter’s sweater and rips, ignoring the faint squawk Peter makes.  Chest bare, Peter hisses as Stiles’ tentatively touches the edge of one of the long gashes.

“You’re lucky this couch is leather,” he mumbles.

Peter’s smile is mostly a sneer.  “You must like this, having me half naked in your living room.”

Stiles gives him a dry look.  “Oh, yeah, it’s my dream come true.”

Peter laughs but it ends in a wince.  A moment later, Deucalion is there with the first aid kit in hand.  Stiles takes it with a small but grateful smile, and Deucalion lets their fingers linger close as he passes it off to him. 

Watching, Peter bites the inside of his cheek and is quiet, a brow going up.  Stiles makes quick work of the cleanup, making sure everything appears to me in its right place before pressing heavy gauze to the cuts that have finally started to heal a little bit.  Deucalion hovers as Stiles works, and as Stiles is finishing in wrapping Peter’s abdomen, one of Peter’s hands falls over his.  He squeezes, gently, and Stiles frowns. 

“Thank you,” Peter says, and his smile is crooked and almost affectionate.

“I couldn’t let you bleed out in my living room,” Stiles says with a shrug. 

Peter nods.  “I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”

Stiles blinks a few times, brows drawing tight.  “Usually I’d say sexual favors work wonders, but the idea makes me a little green around the gills.”

“No it doesn’t,” Peter laughs again.

Stiles pushes to his feet, pulling his hands free and gesturing to the kitchen.  “Right, well, while you’re delirious from blood loss, I’m going to go wash my hands.”

At the sink, Stiles focuses on getting the blood out from under his fingernails.  He scrubs quietly, lips in a tight line, and over the sound of wind whipping against the walls of his home, he can hear the faint murmur of the TV from the living room. 

When he’s as finished as he thinks he can get, he turns the water off and pivots to dry his hands.  He nearly smacks right into Deucalion’s chest, yelping quietly, and placing a wet hand over his own heart as it stutters against his ribcage.  Deucalion tilts his head.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m—“ Stiles sighs.  “I’m fine.  Thanks.”

Deucalion takes a step forward when Stiles moves to edge around him, and Stiles feels heat rise under his skin at the proximity.  They haven’t been this close since the dual Pack meeting five days previous. 

Pressing back against the edge of the sink, Stiles swallows thickly.  Deucalion doesn’t stop until they’re a breath away from one another, his hands coming out to brace against the counter behind Stiles.  Bracketed in, Stiles swallows thickly.

“Um.”

“Are you and Peter Hale in a relationship, Stiles?” he asks.

Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue.  “What? No.  _What_?”

“Are you attracted to him?”

“ _No_.  I mean, well, kinda—You can’t blame me, I’m a teenager surrounded by supermodels, but _no_ —“

Deucalion leans in those last few inches, catching Stiles’ lips in a chaste kiss.  Stiles shivers, mouth tingling even as it breaks half a second later, Deucalion lingering in his space. 

“Forgive me,” Deucalion mutters.  “I just needed to be sure.”

Stiles nods dumbly.  “Forgiven.”

“And I apologize for dragging this to your doorstep,” Deucalion adds quietly, tilting his head, their noses bumping.  “I needed to get him somewhere safe and neutral.  It wouldn’t do our peace treaty any good if I’d left him to bleed out during the storm.”

Stiles nods again.  “No biggie.  Not the first mess I’ve cleaned up—“

Deucalion kisses him again.  Moaning, Stiles reaches up, draping his arms around Deucalion’s shoulders. 

At Stiles’ waist, Deucalion loops a heavy arm.  It feels possessive, the way their mouths press, the heat of their bodies flush with one another.  Stiles shudders heavily, fingers curling into the material of Deucalion’s jacket.  Fingers tangle into Stiles’ hair, tugging lightly and earning a soft mewl.  Deucalion rumbles out a pleased sound in reply.

“Oh, for christ’s sake!”  Peter calls from the living room, and Stiles breaks the kiss with a sharp little gasp.  “I nearly _died_ and you two are making out like preteens!  At least wait until I’m passed out or something—I can hear the smacking.”

Blushing, Stiles bites the insides of his lips to hold in his amusement.  Deucalion smiles at him, kissing the corner of his mouth. 

“I suppose I should let you get back to your film,” Deucalion mutters.  “And call Alpha Hale to let him know that his uncle is alive and well.”

“Right,” Stiles nods, easing his arms back from around Deucalion’s neck.  “Totally.  Makes sense.”

As Stiles starts easing around him, Deucalion catches him by the wrist.  “We will need to discuss this soon.  The courtship.”

Stiles clears his throat.  “Right.  Totally.”

Nodding, Deucalion brings Stiles’ hand up to his mouth and kisses the inside of his wrist.  “Go on, then.”

In the living room, Stiles takes a seat in the plush armchair just off to the side of the couch where Peter is laying.  When he looks Peter’s way, the man has a knowing smile on his face, cocky and bemused.  Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning forward and snatching his bowl of popcorn back off of the table—along with the remote. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

As he turns the volume up in time to see Joe Pesci get his head set on fire, Peter doesn’t say a word.


	4. Snowball Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Challenge Day Four
> 
> Theme: Snowball Fight
> 
> No Prompt

“—so he wants to bone you?”  Isaac asks, hands tucked into his pockets as they walk along a beaten path in the Preserve, snow crunching underfoot. 

Stiles scoffs out a small sound.  “That’s not—I mean, yes, but that’s not—“

“Kinda cool, actually.”  Isaac shrugs, cheeks flush from the cold as he stops, turning to face Stiles with a lopsided grin.  “Kinda creepy though, too.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles rubs his hands together.  “He wants my permission to court me.  It’s… sweet.”

“Sweet?” Isaac asks, brow going up, mock clear in his expression.

Stiles’ cheeks puff out and he stomps by.  “Can we get this over with?  I’d rather not be on border patrol all afternoon, dude.”

Isaac trails after him, amusement in his voice.  “I dunno, Stiles, sounds a bit like you’re just as smitten as he is.  He is _sweet_ , after all.”

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

Isaac laughs.  “You totally have a crush!”

Jaw flexing, Stiles stops abruptly and crouches.  He moves quick, too quick for Isaac to really process, and then launches a snowball right at his face. 

It hits Isaac between the eyes and he sputters.  Stiles bites the insides of his lips and they thin, his shoulders jerking slightly with self-contained laughter.  A moment later, Isaac is crouching and gathering up his own snowball.  Stiles books it.

* * *

An hour later, they’re still chasing each other.  Stiles is laughing as he runs away, and Isaac does his best not to cheat too much as the launch attacks from close and far range.  They are near the end of their patrol area, and Stiles takes a hard one to the back of his head.

He stumbles, falls, and face plants hard into the snow.  For a few seconds, everything is fuzzy. 

Blinking, he realizes that someone is holding him.  Isaac looks guilty, off to the side and talking quietly with Derek.  Stiles’ brows knit together and his head throbs. 

“Oh, shit.”  He mumbles. 

They both look over at him.  Isaac’s expression goes lax with relief. 

Fingers trail lightly through his hair; there is snow, cold through his clothes.  “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit in the head,” Stiles says, canting his head back to peer up at Deucalion.  “How did you guys--?”

“We were on our own rounds.  Heard Isaac trying to wake you.”  Deucalion replies softly. 

Stiles huffs.  “Werewolf strength and snowball fights.  Not a good mix.”

Deucalion hums.  “I’d imagine not.” 

“Stiles?” Derek calls over to him, brows up.  “Will you be alright getting home with—“

“Yeah, yeah.”  Stiles waves him off.  “Go.  Do wolf things.  I’m good here.”

Derek nods.  He and Isaac are gone not a moment after. 

Laying there, head in Deucalion’s lap, Stiles takes a deep breath.  His eyes close; Deucalion just pets through his hair quietly.  Stiles looks up at him again, lips pursed slightly.

“I’m okay with it,” Stiles says.  “I mean… What I mean, is that I accept.”

“Accept?” Deucalion asks.

“The courtship thingy,” Stiles says with a vague wave of his hand.  “I accept you courting me.”

Deucalion smiles.  “Alright.” 

Stiles frowns.  “That’s it?  Alright?”

“There will be more,” Deucalion assures.  “But for now, I think I might need to get you home.  You’ll catch cold if we linger out here for much longer.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but his head still aches.  “Yeah, okay, fine.”

Leaning down, Deucalion presses a kiss to his forehead.  Stiles would be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the affection. 

“Come on, then.”  Deucalion breathes.  “Lets get you home.”


	5. Bundled Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Day Five
> 
> Theme: Overly Bundled for the Weather
> 
> No Prompt

“ _Stiles_ !”

He groans from where he’s hiding beneath his sheets, feverish and slick with perspiration.  His father calls his name again after a moment. 

There is the sound of footfalls up the stairs to his bedroom.  Stiles buries deeper under the covers when he hears his door open.  His father sighs heavily.

“Come on, kid.”  John mutters.  “There’s a werewolf downstairs at the front door and I have to get to work.”

John sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed, pulling the sheets down to see him.  He frowns, reaching up to press the back of his hand to Stiles’ forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

Stiles grumbles.  “I’m fine.”

“Stiles,” Johns sighs, looking at his watch.  “I need to get you to the doctor’s—get you some meds to bring this down.  I’ll have to call in.”

“Who’s here?” Stiles asks on a breath.

“The blind one,” John says, helping sit up and lean against the headboard. 

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles purses his lips.  “His name’s Deucalion.”

John grimaces.  “He wants in my son’s pants.  I don’t care what his name is.”

“Go to work,” Stiles mumbles.  “Deucalion can get me to the hospital.”

“He’s _blind_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Then I’ll call Scott.  Just… Let him in.  It’s not a big deal.”

John hesitates.  “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with that—“

“Dad,” Stiels sighs, heavy and exhausted.  “It’ll be fine.  _I_ will be fine.”

Lips thin, John nods.  “Fine.  I’ll let him in.  You text me when you get to the hospital.”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles gives a lazy salute as his father stands.

He listens as his father trots back down the stairs, eyes drifting back shut.  Leaning heavily against the headboard, Stiles is awake one moment and dozing the next.  His breath steadies, a slow in and out until he’s drifting, head lulling to the side.

When he blinks awake some unknown amount of time later, Deucalion is sitting at the edge of his bed, petting through Stiles’ hair despite the way it is slightly matted from his sweat.  Stiles snuffles, head butting up into the touch, and Deucalion smiles. 

“For a moment I thought you might not wake,” Deucalion says.

“Whatever would you do if I didn’t open my eyes again?” Stiles asks, tone dry and voice hoarse, but the hand in his hair stills.

Deucalion’s expression is tight, jaw flexing, and Stiles shifts slightly.  “I’d find a way to wake you.”

“Oh,” Stiles breathes, shivering at the hard edge of Deucalion’s voice, leaning blindly into his touch as Deucalion’s palm curves over his cheek.  “Like… no holds barred kind of finding.”

“That’s correct,” Deucalion hums and leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to Stiles’ cheek.  “I’ve developed quite the affection for you; nothing would get in my way of getting you back.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles whispers, eyes falling shut as Deucalion’s mouth drags down to his mouth, another kiss at the corner of his lips, then a chaste brush of their mouths together before Deucalion pulls back again.  “Makes—Um… Makes sense.  Cuz, you know, courting thing.”

“Yes, the courting _thing_ ,” Deucalion mocks softly.  “That’s what I was here for, actually.  I had plans to take you out.”

Stiles snorts, slumping against the headboard again as Deucalion takes one of his hands in both of his.  “Did you tell my dad that?”

“Yes.”

“He really must’ve _loved_ hearing that,” Stiles grumbles.

“I’m fairly certain he made threats on my life, actually.”  Deucalion says, grin crooked and fond.  “Though, it doesn’t much matter now.  You’re sick.”

“I have to get to the doctor’s office—“

“I heard,” Deucalion assures.  “Kali will be here with the car in a few moments.”

Stiles yelps as Deucalion pulls the blankets the rest of the way off of Stiles in a swift movement.  Flush, he blinks owlishly as Deucalion tugs him out of bed and sets him carefully on his feet. 

“What are you--?”

“It’s cold out,” Deucalion says.  “I need to bundle you up.”

“No, I can—“

“Stiles,” Deucalion says, voice firm, eyes glowing red as he looks at Stiles—by now, he knows that it is the only way for Deucalion to see.  “I’m going to get you dressed for the horrid weather outside, if only to get my hands on you.”

Stiles’ cheeks go pink in a way that has nothing to do with his fever.  “Okay.”

Deucalion’s smile broadens.  “Okay.”

* * *

When they get back from the hospital with a prescription and Melissa’s dry orders to rest up and not go trying to save the world, Stiles is ready to pass back out.  He’s wearing too many layers, stumbling into his own room, stripping off gloves that he didn’t need and a scarf that feels like it’s strangling him.  Deucalion trails after him, bemused and concerned all wrapped into one. 

He helps Stiles shed out of the two coats that he insisted Stiles wear.  Breath a bit bated, Stiles grumbles something quietly, and Deucalion has to stop him from climbing back into bed. 

Whining, drugged and dazed, Stiles turns to him.  “Come _on_.”

“You need to wash off and get some fresh clothes on,” Deucalion says firmly.

Cheeks puffing out, Stiles crouches down and pushes off his shoes with an irate little huff.  “ _Fine_.”

Stiles strips on the way to his bathroom, unabashed.  He pads to the shower, leans against the tiles, and cranks the faucet on.  The water is cold at first, but he doesn’t care.  He slumps under the spray, head swimming, and takes slow breaths.

The curtain is still open, and Stiles isn’t surprised when water spills out onto the floor.  He realizes, distantly, that he should probably pull it shut—but then Deucalion is standing there, barefooted and contemplative.  Stiles blinks at him, lips parting, and his breath catches as Deucalion pulls his shirt up and over his head. 

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, already unzipping his fly.

Stiles shakes his head, then realizes his mistake and croaks out a soft “no.”

“Good,” Deucalion shucks his pants off, stepping into the shower with him and pulling the curtain closed.

Despite the heat of his skin and the warmth of the shower, when Deucalion’s hand land on his skin, they are scalding.  Stiles shudders heavily, leaning back against his chest, and shivering as lips press to his temple. 

Deucalion touches him like he knows Stiles’ body intimately.  He mouths over Stiles’ neck, works him over until Stiles is shaking; sensations feel magnified in the close space of his shower.  Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because of the drugs or because he’s never been touched like this, but he knows that it leaves his thighs trembling.  Reaching up, his back to Deucalion’s chest, he clutches at his shoulders and groans as Deucalion wraps his fingers around the base of Stiles’ cock. 

A leg slides between his, keeping Stiles’ weight balanced against Deucalion, and Stiles whimpers as Deucalion starts to pump over his length.  It doesn’t take much—Stiles is too sensitive, too unused to be touched by another person—before he’s coming with a soft mewl over Deucalion’s fingers.  Teeth bite hard enough at the juncture between his neck and shoulder to leave a mark, and Stiles’ hips jerk slightly.

Languid and content, Stiles lets Deucalion wash him off.  When he’s turned around to face him, Deucalion pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth, Deucalion’s eyes are that vivid red again.  Stiles hums, letting himself be manhandled out of the shower and dried off.  He leans heavily against Deucalion’s chest as he’s carried off to bed.

Once he’s tucked in, Stiles gropes blindly.  He pulls Deucalion down into the sheets with him, letting their legs tangle.  Deucalion tangles a hand into Stiles’ hair, still damp, and kisses his forehead.

“Good night, sweet boy.”  Deucalion murmurs. 

Stiles mumbles a soft reply, and then drifts back off.


	6. Planning a Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Day Six
> 
> Theme: Planning the Family Party
> 
> No Prompt. To the ever lovely Mar.

There are lips at the line of his shoulder, dragging down in warm affection, and Stiles shivers at the sensation.  He makes a soft sound, like a mewl, and Deucalion hums in reply.  His arm tightens around Stiles’ waist, tugging him back against a broad chest, and Stiles goes pliant in his hold.  It is all skin, legs tangled, and Stiles goes flush but cannot bring himself to protest the intimacy of it.

Sunlight seeps through the thin curtains of Stiles’ room, gold like dusk, and Stiles wonders if he slept the day away.  There is still a stuffiness in his head, but he doesn’t feel the clinging heat of fever in his blood anymore.  Deucalion kisses up the line of his neck; Stiles cants his head over for him with a shudder.  Their hands find one another’s beneath the sheets, fingers lacing in a messy tangle, and Deucalion guides Stiles’ palm up over to rest above his chest where he can feel the steady _thump-thump_ of his own heart.

“The cadence is different,” Deucalion says, voice soft as his lips brush the shell of Stiles’ ear.  “Between when you’re asleep and when you’re awake.  But it is always so fast.”

Stiles stares out, watching the way the sunlight has stained his carpet in patches of yellow.  “My dad will shoot you if he finds you in my bed.”

“It was the first thing I noticed about you,” Deucalion breathes, hold going firm on him in reply to Stiles’ comment.  “How quickly your heart beats.  How strong it is.”

Stiles’ cheeks go that ruddy color; he twists around in Deucalion’s hold, licking his lips as he presses back close tentatively.  He is met with an encouraging smile, Deucalion’s arms slipping back around him, palms big and warm as the slip up the curve of Stiles’ back.  Stiles’ breath hitches as a thigh slides between his. 

“Is that why you chose to court me?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Deucalion says, humming as Stiles presses open-handed at his chest, slipping them up slowly to curve behind his neck.  “Among other things.  Humans don’t often _choose_ to run with wolves.”

“And how does this courtship end?” Stiles mumbles, leaning in, their lips ghosting slowly.

Deucalion lets out a soft sound, slanting their mouths together firmly.  He parts Stiles’ lips with his tongue, licks past his teeth and lets their mouths twine in a slow heat.  Idle and sweet.  They shift together, Stiles’ moan muffled and swallowed down hungrily by Deucalion. 

Stiles goes from mildly interested to aching for Deucalion’s touch as he ruts against the jut of Deucalion’s hip.  The older man urges him to do it again with a low rumble, big hand curving over the swell of Stiles’ ass to coax his hips into a slow rocking motion.  Stiles’ nails dig in, blunt, at one of Deucalion’s shoulders.  He gasps against his mouth, pelvis stuttering forward, and he can feel Deucalion’s length against the lower part of his abdomen.  There is a rush of heat and Stiles realizes absently that he _wants_.

The kiss breaks and Stiles is panting.  Deucalion rolls them until Stiles is under the wondrous weight of Deucalion’s body, rutting up against his thigh.  A kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth, dragged to one cheek, his temple, his forehead, his nose.  Stiles whimpers.

“When you’re ready,” Deucalion breathes.  “And _only_ when you’re ready, I will have you in every way you’ve ever dreamed.  I’ll make love to you on a full moon until you cannot go any longer, and then I will bite you.”

“Bite me?” Stiles hitches, the bed creaking beneath them as Deucalion rocks with him, feeds that flame that is burning white hot in Stiles’ stomach.

“Not to turn you,” Deucalion assures.  “To mate you.  And then you’ll be mine until the end of time.”

Stiles shudders heavily, tangling a hand into Deucalion’s hair and coaxing the man’s mouth down to his for an achingly chaste kiss.  “ _Yours_.”

Deucalion growls, hands scooping him up close, letting friction do all the work as he buries his face against Stiles’ neck.  “ _Mine_.  My sweet, beautiful boy.” 

There is a broken sound; Stiles realizes absently as they work against each other that he is the one that makes it.  He is breathless and flush, arching and straining up sinuously as Deucalion murmurs sweet things against his skin.

“Such a good boy,” Deucalion says.  “Doing so well, letting me touch you like this.”

Stiles quakes, breath gone, and he practically claws down Deucalion’s shoulders. 

“You smelled so good when you came in the shower for me,” Deucalion kisses along his jaw.  “So desperate and lovely.  Come for me again, love.  Let me hear you.”

Stiles cries out, back bowing, as heat snaps low in his stomach.  He ruts a few more times, jerky and animal, coming in thick spurts between them and over his own abdomen.  Deucalion groans, movements going a bit rough before he follows Stiles over that edge. 

As they come back down, Stiles quivers.  Panting and sweaty, like his fever is back, Stiles goes liquid heavy beneath him.  Deucalion hums, kissing his parted lips and petting slowly through his hair.  Stiles moans and butts his head up into the touch.

“My beautiful boy,” Deucalion mutters.

Stiles nods, voice a bit rough.  “Yours.”

* * *

“You want to what?” John asks, setting a soup bowl in front of Stiles. 

Shifting in his chair, Stiles shrugs a shoulder, bundled up in a blanket and sniffling mildly as his dad sits across from him at the dinner table.  “A party.  Not a big one.  Just the Packs and stuff.  For Christmas.”

John sighs heavily.  “I dunno, kiddo.”

“It’ll be a potluck thingy,” Stiles adds quickly.  “Nothing crazy.  I promise.”

John grimaces.  “And you want to do this because of your boyfriend—who, I might add, is way too old for you and the next time I see him, I’m shooting him in the foot—mentioned it might be a good idea.  For Pack bonding.”

Stiles blushes.  “Yeah, and… you know, and other reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Like Derek and Isaac not having a family to spend it with,” Stiles says.  “And it’ll be the Argents’ first Christmas without Allison’s mom.  And… I dunno.  I just don’t want anyone to be lonely.”

John’s expression goes soft.  “Yeah.  Okay.  We can do a party.”

Stiles beams.


	7. Hanging the Stockings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECFANFIC Day Seven
> 
> Theme: Putting up the stockings
> 
> No Prompt. More of an epilogue than anything else.

The party is in full swing.  They decide to host it at Lydia’s simply because there is more space.  It is homey, though, with all of them tucked in from the cold.  There is an extravagant tree in the corner of the living room, and Stiles stood in awe of it for the longest time.  It smells like evergreen and spiced cocoa.

Stiles smiles to himself as he watches everyone mingle quietly together.  There are smiles on their faces, and Stiles feels a swell of pride that he brought them all here.  Peter brushes by with a smug look, chatting idly with Lydia’s mother, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as he leans against the door jamb.  He knows Lydia will give him hell for insisting Peter be there too.

Erica and Isaac are arguing playfully over who gets what stocking—each unique in its own way, but without names.  They hang them from the fireplace, and Stiles inhales deep as he watches them involve Ethan into their petty bickering. 

“How are you doing?” Deucalion asks, shuffling close, a drink in his hand that he holds out for Stiles to take. 

“Good,” Stiles says with a smile, almost coy.  “You?”

“Good,” Deucalion returns the expression, and Stiles knows that he can hear the stutter of Stiles’ pulse.  “What is it?”

Stiles glances up.  “We’re under the mistletoe.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep.”

Deucalion hums, pressing in, and he dips his head to catch Stiles’ lips in a slow kiss.  If anyone is watching, they don’t comment.  Stiles is still smiling when they break away.

“Happy Christmas, love.” Deucalion murmurs.

Stiles hums.  “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
